


In sync

by Hyoushin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Drabble, Experimental Style, Feels, Idiots in Love, Late Night Writing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sherlock has feelings, Sherlock-centric, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock teaches John how to dance one afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In sync

**Author's Note:**

> \---->I don't want anyone to be confused, this is told from Sherlock's POV kay?  
> The challenge was to avoid mentioning the word dance/dancing and one of their names until the end.
> 
> [Pre-wedding]

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Low notes, high notes, notes in between, various layers of sound meet; converge and fuse in a slow tempo, conceiving a feast made of harmony that drifts into receptive ears, echoes over mounds of flesh, mutes the constant noise in jaded souls—a melody, the invisible agent captivating their senses, shaping their movements, tinting the air they share through instants  that die before being born.   

 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

His partner’s hesitation and uncertainty represents an obstacle that makes coordination a difficult feat. But the closeness of a body whose ordinary outline is an extraordinary detail subdues the impatience of his analytical mind. As spidery fingers tighten their hold on a smaller hand to prevent an escape, the desire to continue burns with the energy of an expiring constellation in versicolor irises.

 

The warmth his other hand feels when it resumes its position on his partner’s back—almost—persuades a sigh to come out of his lips.

 

“John. Just follow me.”

  
  
He straightens his posture and readies his feet and with a preceding, “one, two, three,” he begins once more; legs moving to the slow rhythm of a never-ending song that is indifferent to how quickly the hours leave him so far behind. He is trapped in one cycle. He does not realize what is happening, not even when his body has to halt to rest for a minute or two.

 

His partner crawls no longer, his partner follows him, follows him well, gradually adding the grace that confidence and practice have sowed to their set of synchronized motions. He can now glide with him over the floor of the living room, enjoying the ease with which they twirl whenever the song demands it. He finds he truly relishes the act of leading him, of guiding him.

 

He is fascinated by this intimacy. _Dangerous? Very dangerous._ He craves it. His mind races. He looks down, examines golden and silver threads until he encounters blue, different shades of blue threatening to pull him down and submerge him somewhere unknown. _Danger_ . He desires to consume the dichotomy they hide: the soldier who learned to fire and the doctor who learned to suture. _Caution._

 

They spin.

 

An useless activity this might be, but he regards it as an special indulgence; it symbolizes the wonderfully trite exception to the rule.

 

They spin once again.

 

They are closer.

 

The closest they can be without melting fabric, skin, muscle and bone.

 

He feels hands, warm and callused, tracing his shoulders, fingertips brushing his nape. As if the action told an unvoiced instruction, he leans downward, dark curls hanging unrestrained from his hairline. Their arms might be implying an embrace while their closeness something final, perhaps fatal. He is unsure.

 

He does not mind.

 

So they sway and sway away in sync.

 

He catches a foreign sound. Different. Discordant. Knocks on a door. A door is opened. An old female form stands on the threshold. An unwelcome exclamation introduces a permanent interruption.

 

His artificial world quakes and then disintegrates.

 

The ghost of an actual occurrence, which haunts his daydreams and stray thoughts, vanishes. And yet—in a Palace, an indelible fantasy rewinds itself forever; for in his mind, their song will never end, and neither will they.  


_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Sherlock awakens.


End file.
